


Song For B

by eerialmercurial



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Recovery, Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-27
Updated: 2014-10-27
Packaged: 2018-02-21 09:07:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,579
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2462621
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eerialmercurial/pseuds/eerialmercurial
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Avengers acquired the asset five days ago.</p>
<p>He hasn't spoken for four days now.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Song For B

The Avengers acquired the asset five days ago.

He hasn't spoken for four days now.

* * *

"We can't just leave him like this, Sam," Steve said, speaking in urgent, hushed tones to avoid super-soldier hearing.

"He's been traumatized for decades, Steve. Decades. You can't expect him to be just fine," Sam said at a normal volume. Steve stared at Sam, stricken, and the other man sighed, rubbing his temples. "He's not gonna be okay, Steve. He's not gonna be okay for a long, long time, if he's ever okay."

Steve just looked at him, pain glazing his eyes.

"I know. I know." Steve stared at the floor and hunched in on himself.

* * *

 The asset sits in his room. Fractured sounds, smells, images, textures, sensations, temperatures pound his senses. The cool breeze of an autumn day mingles with the smell of popcorn and flesh on fire, the sound of a single gunshot (to the head perfect shot) ripping through and suddenly he’s at the ocean, waves lapping his toes (but Stevie can’t get wet boy’ll catch pneumonia if he’s lucky) and mortars are landing all around him and he can’t get up he’s strapped to the table and

“B- Are you okay?” A knock at the door. The blond man’s concerned voice.

The asset looks up at the door. Wood covering vibranium-reinforced steel. Unlocked. Always unlocked.

“I’m coming in.”

The door opens. Heavy, but the blond man has no trouble. He shouldn’t have any trouble. He should be having trouble?

The asset doesn’t shake his head to clear the confusion. The asset keeps his eyes lowered. The asset does not curl into himself. The asset does not move. The asset controls his breathing.

The administrators do not like it when he sounds panicked.

The blond man crouches down.

“Are you okay?”

The asset does not look up.

* * *

 Steve sighed deeply, poking at the scrambled eggs with his spatula. Scrambled eggs and white rice, like every morning the past two weeks. Chopped tomato on the side, with a glass of apple and carrot juice and a bigger glass of water.

Bucky had to be starving, if his metabolism was anything like Steve’s. But this plate would probably come back less than half eaten, just like the last one, and the last one…

The eggs were burnt. Steve cursed a blue streak and tipped the eggs onto a plate, already resolving to make more. He was no cook, but he would do the best he could for Bucky, goddamnit. When the second batch was done, this time a little runny - better that than burnt, considering they pasteurized everything these days - Steve walked as quietly as he could to Bucky’s room, soundproof to anyone without enhanced hearing.

He knocked quietly, opening the door after ten seconds with no response. His heart beat faster when he couldn’t immediately find Bucky in the room, but a few steps in and he saw that the man was crouched in the shadowy corner beside the closet like every morning.

Bucky’s eyes were wide with terror, and he was in a defensive stance. It was already what Steve had begun to identify as one of Bucky’s “worse” days.

Steve gingerly put the plate on the floor by Bucky’s bed, within plain sight. He had to put great effort into turning around and walking back out with no pause. The last time he had tried to stay and comfort Bucky, the other man had become inconsolable and began weeping in what turned out to be Belarusian, begging for help.

Steve gingerly shut the door behind himself, latch clicking firmly, refusing to turn the many locks if he didn’t have to.

He walked quietly away, having already learned that heavy footfalls made him more threatening to Bucky, before quietly collapsing onto the couch in the living room, head falling in his hands. He took a few deep, quivering breaths, willing himself not to cry, before forcing himself up to change into his gym clothes.

Maybe the punching bags would hold the answers to his problems. They hadn’t yet, but there’s a first time for everything. 

* * *

They’re coming for him they’re coming for him they’re coming for him they’re coming for him they’re coming for him-

Hydra won’t ever let their favorite weapon go, their asset, the soldier with no soul, no conscience other than what they put into him, the good soldier, the model weapon, the fist of Hydra, the pride of Hydra, Hydra’s joy

He needed to hide.

Vibranium-reinforced steel door, walls likely the same, window not glass - a screen with simulated images of outside, no exposure. Closet is simple wood but provides best opportunity for surprise.

Hide. 

* * *

“You need to get out of the tower, man. You’re gonna go stir-crazy before long,” Sam said.

“But what if he needs me? What if he asks for me, and I’m not here? I can’t do that to him again, Sam, not again-”

“You’re gonna drive yourself crazy like that. You can’t be here for him if you’re not taking care of yourself, too.” Sam left no room for argument. This wasn’t the first time they had talked about this. And a month into Bucky’s recovery, a week into his new habit of hiding in the closet whenever someone entered his room, and twenty-seven days since he had last spoken, Steve was finally ready to give in.

“Okay,” Steve said, his shoulders slumped, “okay.”

“Good,” Sam replied, and walked down the hallway, punching in his passcode and retinal scan before twisting the locks outside the door. Steve tried not to wince with every soft click of a lock. 

* * *

The trip to MOMA did Steve more good than he wanted to admit, and after watching Sam purse his lips at the extremely sweet, Vietnamese coffee Steve had developed a taste for, he was in a good enough mood to accompany Sam to the VA, even if it was just to make coffee and set out the cookies after meetings.

“You know, I’m sure they’d appreciate your help here more often. Even if you do make terrible coffee,” Sam said, drinking his cup anyway.

Steve smiled. “I’ll think about it,” he said. Maybe later, maybe when Bucky…

Sam clapped a hand on Steve’s shoulder, squeezing for a second before letting it drop and walking back to his office. 

* * *

When Steve came back a few hours later, carrying leftover Thai and laughing at Sam’s latest story about Tony’s suggestions for the wings, he realized that he had managed to forget all about Bucky a few times.

He instantly felt guilty, good mood crashing down on heavy shoulders. He dropped the leftovers in the kitchen before walking to Bucky’s door, unlocking everything before knocking quietly and calling, “Bucky?”

He stepped in after just a few seconds, images of everything horrible that could have happened to Bucky running through his head.

The closet door was ajar. That was the closest to an invitation Steve was going to get.

“Hey, buddy,” Steve said, crouching down and opening the door a crack more. “How are you doing?” Bucky just stared at him, a look of lingering terror still in his eyes, flat and far off. There were a few pieces of paper in front of him, crumpled like Bucky fell asleep on them.

“Can I see these?” Steve asked. No reply, of course. Steve held in a sigh and pulled the papers closer to himself, ignoring how Bucky got minutely tenser at the movement.

They were covered in thick, dark lines of pencil, graphite smudging and tearing through the paper in places. Steve could just make out the ghosts of figures underneath the heavy lines, traces of cyrillic and what looked like Chinese on the edges.

“Can I keep these? I’d like to show them to a friend.” Bucky just looked at the floor, back to ignoring eye contact. Steve did sigh this time. He wasn’t sure what he was waiting for.

“Goodnight, Bucky,”Steve murmured, closing the door quietly behind himself, feeling Bucky’s eyes stare holes into his back as he went. 

* * *

Two weeks later, Steve was watching Bucky sleep through an MRI, staring at him through the observation window like he could bore a hole and take Bucky’s place if he just looked hard enough.

Natasha ghosted up beside him, watching intently. She had taken one look at the papers Bucky had drawn and took them from Steve. He didn’t know if she was trying to decipher them or protect him or both.

“Are you okay?” she murmured, eyes on Bucky’s prone form.

Steve let out a hysterical chuckle. “No. Not even a little bit.”

She reached out for his hand, grasping it tightly. Steve clutched it like a lifeline, the callouses and soft skin grounding him where he thought he would float away. 

* * *

 Steve stared into his coffee - black, made in the little pot he kept on the stove for when he needed reminders of things before the war. Before everything went to hell. If he just stared at it long enough, maybe things would be okay.

Sam cleared his throat from across the table.

“He’s not getting better,” Steve said, the words dropping like a lead weight through the quiet air. “The doctors are saying he’s just...stuck like this. There are no changes. Nothing.”

Sam reached across the table, silently covering Steve’s hand, and Steve finally, finally let himself cry.

* * *

The Avengers acquired the asset three months ago. He hasn't spoken in 88 days.

**Author's Note:**

> This story is basically fanfic training wheels for me, so concrit is super appreciated!


End file.
